Morrigan had settled into the captain's personal quarters, perched on a three-legged stool behind a narrow table bolted to the floor. Calling this space anything more than a closet required a generous leap of imagination. The room hardly matched a captain's status—neither in size nor decor. Though, given the ship's modest scale and crew, it was a blessing it even had a door. By the light streaming through the wide-open porthole with its six tiny square panes, the witch meticulously examined the ship's log, ledger, and the few rolled parchments containing maps, documents, and letters. The papers held a genuine fascination for her. With enough attention, they allowed her to peer through a keyhole into the lives and thoughts of strangers. The lines of letters, numbers, and symbols soothed a strange envy she felt for others' achievements, no matter how trivial they seemed upon closer inspection.
Her finger tapped thoughtfully against the table's surface, polished by countless touches, when the door creaked a warning. A gust of fresh air rushed in, playfully darting about the room before escaping through the porthole, and in strode the red-haired beauty. Gently closing the door behind her, Leliana scanned the room for a second piece of furniture to accommodate her. Finding none, she settled into the hammock stretched along the wall, leaning back and letting her legs dangle.
Morrigan studied her companion with a gaze that balanced suspicion and curiosity, as usual.
— Did your little chat go well? That request of yours to leave them alive sounded… peculiar. Then again, for a 'sister,' you're surprisingly sharp about human passions and the finer points of negotiation.
— It wasn't hard to get them talking after that… performance,— Leliana replied, her tone light.— A pleasant face and a calming smile work wonders without tricks. Though…— She sighed, noting Morrigan's skepticism.— I see I won't convince you outright. This requires patience—knowing when to listen and when to speak. As for results… The ship was carrying arrowheads and spear tips, taken aboard at Garlen Pass.
An irritated click of Morrigan's tongue cut through the silence as she jabbed a finger at the ledger's worn leather cover.
— Yes. Judging by the northerners' scribbles—our mage included—they love their numbers. A sizable cargo. Risking a ship at this time of year… That must be the reason.
Her hand brushed a bundle tied with thick cord, and she continued.
— This paper calls itself a contract. With someone the captain thought fictitious. A merchant from Highever hired the ship in Amaranthine. But the notes in the margins suggest the pay was substantial—enough for the crew and new rigging. Best of all, no need to fret over the goods. The records say the full sum for purchase and travel expenses was paid upfront. Later, our curious captain noted two oddities. For the sellers by the pass, the deal was routine—no suspicions, no recounting coins, no chatter about news. And the goods themselves… They bore Orlesian markings, but the captain spotted flaws—casting seams, imperfections. Uncommon for Orlesian work.
Morrigan arched a brow, leaving the unspoken question hanging. With a reluctant shrug, Leliana obliged.
— Not bad… for someone raised in the wilds of Korkari. Weapons are forged in Orlais and Ferelden, like anywhere else. But the only folk on this side of the world who master flawless cast-work without losing strength? The dwarves of Orzammar. Digging further isn't wise. This reeks of political scheming. I doubt this ship was alone. Plotters rarely put all their eggs in one basket. There could be two, three layers of plans here. If I had to guess… Someone in Ferelden wants to frame a rival. Or arm a militia in haste. Or provoke an incident with Orlais. The real question is—who has that kind of coin to spare?
Leliana fell silent, her fingers tightening on the hammock's edge. Morrigan closed her eyes in agreement. A sudden quiet settled between them, broken only by the creak of ropes. The green-eyed bard watched a sunbeam crawl across the parchments before abruptly turning her gaze back to Morrigan.
— Truthfully…— Her voice was uncharacteristically firm.— Talking to the crew helped me sort through what I saw. You know… Whatever conclusions you've drawn about me, today's stunt was neither smart nor safe. It was… well, frankly, unhinged. Et I've noticed a… trend. Toward recklessness. To put it mildly. After days in that leaky boat, I've formed an impression. Empreinte... Today's spectacle? Not your usual style. Is it?
Morrigan met her with a dark stare, letting the silence stretch. The events earlier—like much of what churned in her mind—were not topics she cared to share with just anyone. The few conversations she'd had with Alim had only scratched the surface. But as she weighed the risks, Morrigan acknowledged the folly of keeping secrets from her companions. Even in the best-case scenario—reaching Kinloch Hold in days, finding answers in the Circle's library—there was time for chaos. Past talks with Leliana had painted a vivid picture of how uninformed allies might react to such complications. And though something deep and irrational in her rebelled against vulnerability… logic offered compelling arguments. A plan took shape: let Leliana piece together a mosaic of half-truths.
At the edge of her thoughts, a cold comfort flickered—threats could always be eliminated. The ease with which the idea settled among her musings spurred another wave of doubt. With a slow breath, Morrigan cut the spiral short and decided to test the waters.
— Sharp eyes. Let's start with this: two months ago, I'd never have imagined being here. But even if I had… Hmph. I'd have preferred murder. Clean and safe. Then again… No. Avoiding people altogether would've been easier. Unseen, unnoticed, I'd have reached my goal. The mercy you saw? An outside influence. Alim and Bethany's views are soft, but there's no need to trample them yet. Besides, breaking Alim would've been… difficult. They'll change regardless. And lose things they can't yet foresee. The rest of the sharp edges? Those are my problem.
Morrigan tapped her temple lightly with a finger, her lips quirking into a fragile, joyless smile.
— Of course—it's in the mind. And since the art is mine to command, it's no great leap to guess the source of both the nightmares and the… shifts in behavior.
Leliana listened intently, her eyes tracing every flicker of emotion behind Morrigan's wall of words. With a narrowed gaze, she seized the unspoken fact laid bare between them.
— Possession?
She deliberately slowed her speech, dragging a finger along the hammock's edge as she watched the witch arch a brow in silent challenge.
— I'm non expert, but… Do the possessed reason so coldly about their state? You don't fumble words or lose the thread—you hurl them like knives. Oui, your manner is unsettling… but it feels more like a performance than a loss of control. Some choices seem paradoxical, as do your questions. Yet… eccentricity and upbringing explain it well enough. Or the traits of an… extraordinary mind. If—if—you're right.— Leliana hesitated.— I can scarcely imagine what it's like. What doubts gnaw at—
Morrigan slapped the table softly, baring her teeth in a predator's grin.
— Scarcely? Is doubt not your own companion? Do you not heed voices beyond yourself? Here and now, my fate leads you forward. Easy to picture another in your place, once. After all, didn't something—or someone—drive you into the wilds? You, better than most, know the cost of second-guessing. To bleed doubt like an open wound. The word isn't 'scarcely.' It's 'all too familiar.'
Leaning back against the wall, Morrigan massaged the bridge of her nose and exhaled wearily. Her gaze drifted to the ceiling as she continued, indifferent to how deeply her careless words had struck.
— If this were uncontrollable, you'd not be speaking to the 'old' me.— She flashed a sharp smile.— I still know which thoughts are mine… and which are… other.
Leliana flinched almost imperceptibly at the claim—neither provable nor disprovable. But before she could protest, Morrigan pressed on:
— Here's the true worry. If the lesser part of me changed, the answer's clear. But what if it's the greater part? What if what remains of the 'old' is the aberration? Such subtleties often go unnoticed. Like the heroes in all your tales.
The redhead pursed her lips, shaking her head skeptically. Her fingers plucked at invisible strings as she half-quoted the Chant of Light:
— 'Between the first cup and the second lies the abyss…' You call dew a flood, ma'vhenan. But what if you're right? Then we're all already knee-deep.
Morrigan shrugged, her reply measured.
— I wielded this… newness rationally. A clean victory. No casualties. The goal achieved. Yes, it looked frightful. Granted. But from within? Simpler than you'd think. The trick relied on magic. Only… Indifference to pain and violence kills fear—fear of reliving it. And that lets you act where instincts would strangle you. What does surprise me is how calmly you take this. Either your convictions run deeper than I thought… or your blindness does.
Leliana arched a brow, sarcasm lacing her voice.
— Did you expect me to leap overboard the moment you mentioned possession?
— Hmm. What did I expect…? A fair question. One possibility. Certainty. Assurance. And I got it.
Leliana fell silent for a breath, weighing her words. Her fingers tightened—not in prayer, but as if grasping at an elusive truth. Finally, she nodded, shaking her red hair loose with a sad smirk. Then, in a melodic cadence, she recited:
"'…It will name your brother foe,
And brand your dearest friend a knave.
The world, a desert in your sight,
Shall spur your flight, your cold disdain.
Doubt shall nest within your breast,
And sow dark dreams that never wane.
You'll heed them, bred to mistrust,
And soon, corrupting thoughts will creep
Like roots into your heart's young dust,
Their bitter fruit yours to reap.
Then mark the yield of wretched brooding,
Of doubt's exhausting, hollow art:
You, slave to its false preluding,
Shall smother faith's light in your heart.
And then—then shame shall sear your brow,
The outcast's brand, the traitor's stain,
While doubt, triumphant, speaks its vow—
Your final sentence, sharp and plain…'"
[Excerpt from "DOUBT" — Nikolai Nekrasov (1821–1877)]
A heartbeat's pause. A breath. Then she added:
— Yes… A firm foundation is precious. For instance—I've seen the role I play. Even my mere presence makes you… more. Should our paths diverge, it would diminish you. Whatever place the Maker's plan holds for you, you must walk it at my side.
Morrigan straightened, her sharp gaze shifting to the redhead swaying in the hammock. She opened her mouth to snap a retort but froze. A shadow of doubt flickered across the witch's face, twisting into a grim half-smile. Leliana's words had pricked her pride, yet cold logic confirmed their truth. Much of today's reasoning—and the decisions born from it—had been shaped by the "sister's" influence. Unwittingly, over days of travel, the bard had steered Morrigan's thoughts as much as the strangeness in her own mind. And in her self-absorption, the witch had missed it entirely. She licked her lips and nodded.
— Strange to admit… But there's merit in—
The door screeched open with a gust of wind, cutting her off. The culprit was a glowering elf, his fists clenching at the sight of Leliana in the hammock—her posture artlessly accentuating every curve. He jerked his attention to Morrigan, but the image of the redhead had already seared into his mind, derailing his rehearsed words. Neither woman appreciated the dramatic entrance. Leliana's pensive stare and Morrigan's golden, equally curious eyes waited.
— Morrigan. We need to talk about what happened.
Studying him with deliberate slowness, she drawled:
— Let me guess—you waited until Leliana was with me? Let her break the ice first?
The elf's muscles locked, then relaxed. He nodded, unabashed.
— Lady Leliana has a… gentler touch. Having tasted your suspicion firsthand, I thought she'd be the best gauge of your state. Since the conversation stayed civil, perhaps we can address another matter. It seems I alone grasp the scale of the problem at hand. And while this is personal, Leliana and Bethany deserve to know your circumstances as much as I. Everyone—
Morrigan's heavy sigh cut him off mid-sentence.
— How touching, vehn'lin…— Her lips curled in a mockery of a smile.— But do enlighten me: you consulted the 'sister' yet spared the apprentice? How noble—gambling with others' fears.
— I—
His glance darted to Leliana, only to be ensnared by her emerald gaze. But she feigned sudden interest in her nails, leaving him floundering. He scowled, inhaled sharply, and wheeled back to Morrigan.
— You told her?!
— More than I told you. Your concern is noted. But your principles are a headache. Still, I'll tolerate them—for now. They're the only things keeping you grounded. As a person, you're better than most I've met. More interesting, too. But in this group? You're my greatest liability. Don't interrupt. Yes, Leliana is more dangerous.
The bard's eyebrows shot up, her eyes flicking between the mage and the witch. Alim's expression darkened, as if anticipating the next blow. Morrigan barreled on:
— Of the three, she's the least predictable. You might daydream about her, but… A word here, a hint there, and she'd have this ship's crew eating from her palm to oppose the 'dread witch.' Need I mention her bow? Or her knives?
Leliana sat bolt upright, the hammock stilling. The high praise—and the accuracy of Morrigan's observations—clearly startled her. She leaned in, demeanor shifting to something sharper.
— But!— Morrigan jabbed a finger forward.— This one has faith. Never mind that hers is just as maddening. You—you needed only scraps of evidence to doubt me. Leliana heard me outright and dismissed the notion of possession. Because if true, her faith is a lie. In short: her motives are tied to mine. Bethany? The truth would poison her. She needs to grow stronger, not dwell on nightmares. I've no reason to fear the girl—yet. Her purpose aligns with mine. Or will. But you?— Her voice dropped.— Mention your sister, and your principles dissolve. Along with any sense of duty. Worse, those same principles could drive you to betray me. I see nothing to trust—save that our paths converge.
The elf's glare could've bored through stone. He had no rebuttal. The words, though warped to sound grotesque, rang uncomfortably true. As he leaned forward, unwilling to concede silently, Morrigan delivered the final blow:
— Enough gravitas for one day, don't you think?
His jaw worked. A curt nod. He gripped the door handle—then paused, half-turning.
— That spell earlier… You truly had no practice casting without an incantation?
A slow nod from Morrigan. Alim grimaced.
— Impossible. By every metric, it's—
He caught himself.
— You already know, don't you?
Silence. The answer was plain in her eyes—she'd drawn the same conclusions. But hearing it aloud was doubly unnerving. With a final nod, Alim glanced at Leliana and left, the air thick with unease.
* * *
The ship turned back with difficulty, as if the vessel itself, the wind, and the crew alike resisted the idea of returning to Lake Calenhad's chill waters at the tail end of Matrinalis. Hours of tacking in the broad mouth of the River Dane yielded progress barely faster than their old rowboat. By dusk on the first day, a stifling tension gripped the deck. As they worked, each sailor replayed the recent events, baffled—why did they obey four strangers, three of whom were women? Each time their thoughts circled back, they hit the same wall. Every man had either witnessed or been convinced by his mates that at least two of the four wielded 'the art'. To sailors, the term was nebulous, steeped in rumors and superstition, evoking mysticism and dread. To most uneducated folk, mages were rare and lethally dangerous creatures. The Templar Order stood guard for good reason. Only their threat kept magic leashed. And if that leash snapped? Mages would gleefully bring nightmares to life—their own and others'. The deck's bloody demonstration had only cemented those fears.
Yes, mages breathed air and bled like any man. A blade to the heart would kill them—if you could land the blow. But to die from a snap of fingers, or worse, a mere glance? That risk curbed heroic impulses. Each sailor quietly resolved to watch, wait, and endure.
The captain, of course, saw further. He knew the limits of magic, how to dispose of their passengers in the coming days at the cost of a few crew. Magic or not, all needed to eat, sleep, piss. And at sea, other… frailties might emerge. Each, with the right approach, was a vulnerability. But theory was one thing. Practice? A gaze like molten gold reminded him that magic meant instant death for those who miscalculated. That laughter, echoing in his skull. The memory of her, brazenly unclothed, sent shivers down his spine. Instinct screamed: Don't provoke the beast. Trusting that instinct, he left the problem for the Templars—unavoidable at their destination. Just avoid sharp edges.
Yet edges seemed to lurk everywhere.
At sunset, the crew spotted another ship. Morrigan sat coiled on deck, using a rope as a backrest while she and Bethany practiced spells, channeling focus over brooding. The sailors recognized the vessel by its sail—it had trailed them days prior, bound for the river's headwaters. Low and sluggish, it had vanished by dawn. Now, as the ships drew within fifteen paces, the other crew whistled greetings, their jabs honed to prick pride and ego. The captured sailors grimaced but stayed silent, casting uneasy glances at the golden-eyed witch.
Then the captains locked eyes.
A fleeting moment, yet it spoke volumes. Morrigan turned deliberately, tracking the ship until she met the other captain's wary stare. Leliana, emerging late, feigned indifference but arched a brow at the witch.
Seemingly trivial. But Morrigan's will and wit refused to dismiss it. The men would gossip, weaving her into embellished tales. Her talks with the redheaded "sister" had taught her the power of rumor. She'd gauged it accurately—or so she thought. The fallout would begin upon arrival, with three days' head start. Ships did vanish, even on Calenhad—a lake masquerading as an inland sea. But now… whispers would spread sooner, farther. Disappearing the ship was no longer viable. Grimacing, Morrigan ruled it out entirely.
Night fell, draping the deck in uneasy quiet. Sailors, nursing wounded pride, muttered in the dark. Meanwhile, the golden-eyed witch had another conversation. Moonlight pierced ragged clouds, casting pallid streaks that flickered like a hand clenching before a lantern. Shadows from the rigging slithered like long-fingered creatures, clawing at the rails, the sailors' backs, Bethany…
Sleep offered no refuge. Beyond the captain's closet, options were bleak: the open deck, exposed to weather and hard planks, or the hold's maze of ribs and hammocks. Descending to claim a secluded corner, Morrigan found Leliana waiting by a post. In the hold's thick darkness, filled with whispers and creaks, moonlight framed only the bard's boots. Leaning close, her pale green eyes glinting, she murmured near-soundlessly:
— Have you a plan for… violence?
The witch furrowed her brow, parsing the intent behind the question.
— Do you presume the lesson already demonstrated was insufficient? Truly, I—
Leliana shook her head, cutting her off.
— Not mutiny. That requires collective effort—and these men know they'd die long before seeing it through. No.— She glanced into the darkness, licking her lips before continuing.— This is about an act typically devoid of collective accountability. One that, with luck, can be pinned on some faceless culprit. Ten men. Three women. Beauty matters little, though here, it works against us. You terrify every soul aboard— A wince.— though admittedly, their nightmares will take a… carnal turn. As for me?— She smirked.— I'm confident in breaking a few fingers of any man who prefers force over courtship in the dark.
Morrigan arched a brow, voice dripping with mockery.
— So if approached politely, the 'sister' wouldn't object?
A barely visible shrug.
— That always depended on circumstances, mood, and assurance the partner favors neither odd experiments nor disease. Casual coupling is risky business—like fortified wine before battle. It stirs the blood, calms the nerves, but ends in ruin. The Chant doesn't condemn it without reason.
Noting the spark of interest in Morrigan's golden eyes, Leliana opened her mouth to curse—then froze as a shadow fell from the deck. The last off-duty sailor descended, his gaze skittering over the dimly lit curves of both women before he shuddered and vanished into the hold's labyrinth. Morrigan watched him go, grudgingly admiring his springy stride as he navigated the dark maze of posts and hammocks.
Leliana steered the conversation back.
— Bethany.— A measured pause.— She grew up on a farm. Never lingered in taverns past dusk. A daylight scrap with some lout might not trouble her, but in the dark? At the wrong moment—it's always wrong for the victim—against someone heavier? Without training or… experience, it's another matter. I'll keep watch, of course. Alim— A dry laugh.— The leers of other men unsettle him more than he'd admit. Not that his concern is unwelcome, futile as it is. But his attention stays fixed on me and those who glance my way—poor help indeed. The worst will happen. It's life's simplest, cruelest lesson. So plan your aftermath. I've non desire to intervene—nor witness your… impulsivity when faced with fait accompli.
Morrigan nodded slowly, absorbing the warning. Leliana mirrored the gesture, retreating into shadows to hide a satisfied smile—back to Alim's restless murmurs and Bethany's peaceful snores.
* * *
The air grew thick—each breath clung to her lungs like warm, damp silk. Morrigan knew she was dreaming, but the ash falling from the sky left a metallic tang on her lips. This wasn't a dream. It was a place. She observed with detached focus, scouring for clues about its nature. The setting was mundanely familiar for a recurring nightmare—so routine it no longer puzzled her. She'd learned its rules: the inability to alter anything meaningfully or move freely. After fruitless attempts to decipher the forest, ash, and fog as metaphors, she dismissed them as meaningless props.
What she couldn't acclimate to were the emotions—crashing over her in relentless waves whenever the fog birthed the Visitor's silhouette. Yet one certainty had crystallized: the Visitor, at least in form, was female. From the last nightmare, she remembered the figure halting at the mist's edge, clearly defined yet blurred in detail. Logic insisted only a single step remained; instinct whispered otherwise. The Visitor's movements had seemed uncertain then, like someone groping for a door after peering through a window.
Now, as the familiar outline materialized again at the periphery, the cocktail of dread, anticipation, and raw terror burned fiercer than ever. The Visitor moved as before—slow, deliberate, pausing as if solving an invisible puzzle. Sometimes Morrigan wondered: What if she crosses the threshold? Cold logic corrected: When. And then? Whatever sought this meeting, hoping for a benign outcome was just denial dressed as optimism. So the witch cycled through her options: fight or hide. The first felt alien; the second, she admitted, was folly.
The Visitor stopped at the boundary once more. One step from contact. Her posture no longer seemed... lost. Yet she advanced no further. For a fractured moment, existence balanced on a knife's edge. Even the ash hung motionless. The scene was silent—no, silence was this place's natural state. But when the faintest ambient noises vanished entirely, the pressure on Morrigan's eardrums became unbearable. Her face twisted with the urge to scream, to test if she'd gone deaf.
As if answering that impulse, a whisper came.
Genderless, rustling like leaves or the scuttle of beetle legs:
— Give... Give back mine... Give it and leave...
Morrigan strained to parse the words, their cadence, the defeat they promised.
— This clarifies little,— she muttered.— And improves nothing.
Suddenly, the suspended ash chose—reversing its fall with eerie fluidity, rising skyward. The air itself shifted, sterile stillness giving way to storm's tension. Morrigan's body locked; her pupils dilated; her breath quickened. Tremors raced through her fingertips as her awareness split.
One part remained in that grotesque forest, staring at the shadow across the mist—a figure like her own reflection in disturbed water.
The other part...
The mist before her was empty. But behind—
Warm breath brushed her neck. A deep, rich voice, edged with a hiss, spoke softly:
— Something is happening... Now.
* * *
With a sharp intake of breath, Morrigan arched in the swaying hammock and froze, her wide eyes piercing the darkness. The uneven creak of the ship, the snores of sailors, the lapping of waves against the hull—each sound confirmed this was reality. Yet the gnawing dread, seared into her memory alongside the last words of her dream, lingered. As if the sensations had spilled from nightmare into waking.
Slowly lowering her bare feet, the witch scanned the room. After so long in the dark, its uniformity dissolved. The world brimmed with gray shapes and the faint outlines of familiar objects, now subtly altered. Taking a few silent steps toward the neighboring hammocks, she sensed Alim's deep, steady breaths, Leliana's faint, barely-there exhales—and... Her hand slid over the edge of the third hammock, finding it empty. Turning back to the seemingly peaceful Leliana, Morrigan frowned. Was that even breathing a ruse? Behind those half-lidded eyes, suspicions swarmed, hardening into certainty: the redheaded "fox" saw and noted far more than she let on. Yes, the cunning beast followed their "visions" dutifully, shackled by her own delusions. Yet... Licking her lips, Morrigan admitted to herself: she'd sorely underestimated the "sister's" knack for manipulation.
Approaching the ladder, she climbed just high enough for her head to clear the deck. The night wind rushed at her, toying with her ink-black hair and lazily snapping the unfurled sail above. The deck appeared deserted. Stepping fully onto the planks, she ghosted toward the stern on the balls of her feet. The moon's silver glow drowned in clouds, leaving only scattered starlight to guide her. Even so, the unmanned helm would have been hard to miss. Yet the wheel didn't spin freely—someone had jammed it in place. A few steps more, and the familiar flat-bottomed boat came into view. After the day's events, the sailors had hauled the humble river craft aboard, driven by ingrained thrift. From behind its hull, the wind carried muffled sounds of struggle and rustling. Two steps, and her sharp eyes caught dark figures against the starry backdrop. They stood at the stern's edge—two of the three night watchmen, their hushed conversation indecipherable at this distance. A third step revealed the scene Morrigan least wished to witness.
By process of elimination, the female silhouette on the deck belonged to Bethany. The girl didn't scream. Only a choked rasp, as if lead filled her throat. A sailor pinned her frail form to the planks like a butterfly to a board—one arm twisted, the other clawing helplessly at the weathered wood. The man took his time. Even from afar, the stench of fermented cider rolled off him, while fear clung to them both. Whether cowardly spite or base lust drove him was impossible to tell. Bethany's trousers and smallclothes already hung carelessly around her knees, and the sailor fumbled with his own equipment, struggling to align himself with the girl's frantic squirming.
Morrigan didn't move. But her pupils dilated like voids swallowing light. Her mind coldly dissected the scene—what did Leliana stand to gain from this? Was she testing the witch's reaction? Or cynically steering the young mage down a chosen path? A deep furrow split Morrigan's brow. Meanwhile, the sailor found his mark. He thrust forward, smothering her whimpers. In such a state, Bethany no longer thought to resist with magic, reduced to animalistic thrashing dictated by sheer terror. The observer's brows knit slowly—not at the act itself, which stirred neither anger nor disgust, but at her own lack of reaction. Memory and logic screamed at her to feel, and worse, a question pulsed in her skull: Why should I care?
Rubbing her temples to the sticky sound of skin on skin, Morrigan reached two conclusions. Doubting her own sanity was dangerous. And even logic had failed her. An outside perspective was needed—and the trembling Bethany would serve perfectly. Drawing in the cool night air, Morrigan shook her head. One long stride, and she dropped to a knee behind the man's jerking form. Deliberately, she aimed lower—where the pain would be unbearable, the humiliation complete. Magic could kill in an instant, but she wanted something more... visceral. His movements grew erratic, signaling his nearing climax—until a piercing pain shattered the crescendo. A scream tore through the night, swallowed at once by the sea. Satisfied the man's "equipment" was now pulp, Morrigan stood and kicked his writhing bulk aside.
The commotion couldn't escape the notice of the rapist's companions. Rushing to the scene, they found a scowling, yellow-eyed demon, a whimpering colleague curled into a fetal position, and a sobbing victim whose posture left little to the imagination. Morrigan shifted her gaze to the newcomers and asked softly:
— Who's the helmsman?
Reflexively, the lanky man to her left raised his hand—only realizing a heartbeat later how dangerous it was to admit anything.
— Nigrum putredo quad devorat animam.
However tough sailors might be, their constitutions were no match for a Templar's. So the helmsman's companion let out a strange gasp, swayed, and collapsed onto his left shoulder. Convulsions wracked him for a minute and a half before his body finally stilled. But Morrigan had already lost interest. Pointing the sole survivor toward the helm, she crouched beside Bethany:
— However you feel—the danger's passed. Breathe. Then pull up your trousers. This wasn't... your first?
Spitting out the gag, Bethany gulped the crisp night air. She opened her mouth to answer, then—unexpectedly to both her mentor and herself—snorted a laugh. It bordered on hysteria, but stifled, strange. Calming slightly, she sniffled, rolled onto her back, and gingerly prodded between her legs. Only then did she tug her smallclothes and trousers back to her waist:
— Thought I'd pissed myself. Then... I should've just gone in the hold. Sounds mad, but—
— Madness looks different. I'd say...
Bethany swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as they scraped the deck's worn planks. Each word seemed forced, squeezed through quivering lips:
— You think? Hope you're right... No, not my first. Or second. Got rolled in haylofts plenty. Mother couldn't mind the farm and two brats. But this... This was... humiliating? Stupid? Oh, Maker...
— Doubt He's involved. Stupid? Aye... Stupid to lie there and not use 'art'. Surely you—
Bethany shook her head violently. Sitting up against the boat's hull, she hugged her knees and muttered:
— At first, I was gonna burn the bastard. Then it hit me—we're on a wooden ship in deep water. What's dumber than fire? That... froze me. Then... his breath, his hands, and—
Her voice broke. Fists clenched—nails biting half-moons into her palms—before she gasped, as if remembering how to breathe. Curled defensively, she scrubbed her cheeks and met Morrigan's gaze with red-rimmed eyes:
— Is it... bad? To be so scared you just want to hide or run?
Footsteps and muffled shouts echoed from the hold. Lantern light flickered in the hatch's black maw. Morrigan knew their time was up. Lips twisting, she said:
— Fear's useful—it points to danger. Saves lives where stupidity triumphs. The problem? Yours ruled you. Listen. Sometimes, you meet a beast and live by luck. Then two paths remain: learn your limits, avoid it forever... or lick your wounds, grow stronger, and tear it apart. Between them? Only thickets of delusion. Don't waste time searching for a middle road—it isn't there. Choose. And never look back.
Bethany bit her lip. Her nod was more a convulsive sigh:
— If I choose to run... will I be useless?
The witch studied her with eerie detachment, drawling:
— No tool's useless. Only fools lack vision to wield them. 'Use' is too crude a measure. But you would grow... less interesting.
Three sailors and the first mate emerged, lantern in hand. The mate's light first fell on the helmsman's pallid face, then swept over the four figures. Hissing at one sailor to fetch the captain, he approached, voice unsteady:
— What... happened?
Rising, Morrigan scoffed:
— The fatal result of stupidity and dashed expectations.
A door slammed. The captain stepped into the light like a man testing thin ice. His eyes darted—corps, a trembling victim, and... the predator's yellow gaze. His hand twitched toward his belt knife but dropped mid-motion. Jaw tight, he barked:
— Who's hurt?
The mate gestured at the first body:
— The one curled up—Graeme. The other...
Crouching, he checked the second man's pulse and froze:
— Huh. Martin's dead.
The captain squinted, gauging the crew's mood, then ventured:
— Does anyone know—
Morrigan clicked her tongue:
— It's quite clear.
As the words hung in the air, Leliana emerged from the hold, followed by a drowsy Alim. While the former scanned the scene with wide-eyed alarm, the latter's bleary gaze fixed only on the backs of the nearest sailors. Morrigan continued:
— Graeme brimmed with malice and desire. Spotted the most defenseless prey and, for some reason, let it spill over. Folly is hard to fathom. But your true failing is thinking too small—too small to even grasp the concept of fear. I care not who's to blame. One of you attacked one of us. You could've reached port and parted ways. Yet someone assumed a narrow gap between open jaws and mass slaughter would stay a witch's hand.
Her molten-gold eyes locked onto Leliana's green ones, as if speaking to her alone:
— A mistake. The culprit lives, but maimed. His accomplice is dead. Now—a lesson in fear.
Deliberately maintaining eye contact, Morrigan snapped her fingers without parting her lips. The sound cracked like thunder. A sailor jerked, groaned, and collapsed onto the deck like butchered meat. His death throes were brief; only the indifferent sail dared stir afterward. From the opposite railing came wet, heaving sounds—someone vomiting overboard. Satisfied her message had landed, Morrigan turned to Alim. He inhaled sharply, shoulders twitching. His fists clenched, then unclenched. The elf frowned, gaze darting between the three women and the crew before settling on Morrigan's arched brow. His lips twisted, schooling his face blank—though not before something dark flickered in his eyes. Finally, he looked away.
Facing the shell-shocked Bethany, Morrigan offered a hand and pulled her up. Standing between the crowd and her pupil, she murmured:
— Time to choose. And prove your worth. Answer honestly—how do my actions seem to you?
— Cruel. Merciless. It makes me sick... but I'd feel that vengeful satisfaction again. The choice? I want to be stronger. Like you. So fear can't rule me. But I'm terrified I'll break halfway. And... you should know—I'm all bold words now. What I truly want is to curl up in a corner and weep until we dock.
— Fascinating.
Bare heels pivoting, Morrigan strode past the petrified crew toward the hold. Bethany stumbled after, her hand still gripped tight. Pausing only a heartbeat beside Leliana—who watched with wary sidelong glances—the witch noted the calculating interest beneath those green eyes. Alim twitched toward the redhead but checked himself, though not before Morrigan caught the tension in his jaw. Leaning close, she breathed near Leliana's ear:
— No proof. Just... circumstance. But I know you nudged the boulder—to see what beasts would flee the thicket. I hope it was worth it. Otherwise, the price in corpses is steep. You've learned of me. I, of you. And you're right—you do make me more... multifaceted. In a way. Pleasant dreams.
* * *
The next day, the weather mirrored the ship's new tension. Rain fell softly from the sky. The crew worked in silence, sending their dead comrades on a final journey to feed the lake fish. No jokes, no gossip. No idle chatter for its own sake. Everyone longed to reach their destination and escape this nightmare. And each vowed never again to shake hands with strangers or let them aboard their own ships. This included their four passengers.
Leliana kept to herself, watching Morrigan and avoiding Bethany—a stark contrast to her usual "sisterly" demeanor. Alim, too, began steering clear of the yellow-eyed witch, reducing their once-easy conversations to terse exchanges. Yet he made time for Bethany: listening to her fears, distracting her with nonsense that made the world seem brighter. With Leliana, he shared only one lengthy talk before a distance settled between them. Whether the mage fully understood that ill-fated night remained unclear, but something had given him pause. Still, he unconsciously kept the redhead within sight.
Bethany, meanwhile, sought Morrigan's company, retreating only occasionally to the hold's far corner to rest. The young mage threw herself into studying magic with fanatical zeal, shunning reflection or scenery. She didn't avoid the crew, but a keen observer might notice her clenched jaw and white-knuckled fists.
Morrigan, oddly, began peppering her pupil with abstract questions, often probing her thoughts on diametrically opposed ideas. The witch herself showed no tension or remorse, lost in thought for hours. Her gaze rarely settled on Bethany, instead drifting across the cloud-choked sky, the mist-shrouded shoreline, the autumn-fired hills, the restless dark water. What was done was done—and thus, to her, unworthy of worry. But what lay ahead?
Her foremost concern, strangely, wasn't the nightmares. It was the Orlesian phrases surfacing in her memory. Sometimes single words—now clear as her mother tongue. Other times, entire sentences whose meaning slipped away. A memory from nowhere. Barring Maker-sent delusions, only one explanation fit: possession. And a worsening one, as her will frayed under foreign pressure. This cast doubt on the clarity of her judgments. Perhaps even her emotions. What she'd once dismissed as aberration now dragged her mind into a bog of suspicion.
Her thoughts circled two urgencies: Leliana's motives, and the problem of the Circle—namely, its Templars and Kinloch Hold's inhabitants.
At sunset, the sun broke through the clouds over the western ridge, its peaks barely visible on the horizon. The light painted some clouds crimson, gold, and orange, while others turned pitch black. A sight equally majestic, mesmerizing, and ominous.
Drenched to the bone, Morrigan sat cross-legged on a barrel by the mast, serene as a queen. Beside her, Bethany shivered stubbornly. The witch eyed her from head to toe.
— Go below. Dry off. Warm up.
— No, I'm fi—
— Look.
Pointing northwest, Morrigan drew Bethany's gaze—and the crew's. To the north, Kinloch Hold rose like a curse. The dying light grazed its spire, making it flash like a bloodied blade plunged into the lake. Then the clouds closed, and the tower became blacker than night—a silhouette splitting the horizon.
— Kinloch Hold, I'd wager. With this wind, an hour at most. Dry off. Warm up.
Bethany nodded, mesmerized by the sudden revelation of their destination. News of their imminent arrival spread through the crew like wildfire, bringing palpable relief—some even dared to smile. As the young mage retreated below, Leliana emerged onto the deck despite the lingering drizzle. Her hands gripped the railing, lips bitten tight, as she studied the approaching spire with a mix of curiosity and unease. Over her shoulder, she kept casting glances at Morrigan, as if anticipating something. Time was running thin.
Alim joined them shortly after, his face lighting up at the sight. To the elf, this was home—a symbol of the end of his life's most maddening, protracted adventure, and a promise of reunion with his only sister. He exhaled, shoulders straightening for the first time in days.
The closer they sailed, the more imposing the tower became. Its base featured monumental buttresses reminiscent of Ostagar's architecture, though they seemed decorative compared to the sheer scale of Kinloch Hold. Up to its midpoint, the structure was a stark rectangle, its monolithic façade broken only by orderly rows of slit-like windows. Higher still, the tower tapered in gradual tiers until it culminated in a needle-pointed roof, its four ridges flowing like the edges of a spearhead. A keen eye would note signs of repair: fresh shingles here, rust stains there—the marks of habitation.
Morrigan rose and glided to Leliana's side. In flawless, accentless Orlesian, she murmured:
— Un barde doit connaître l'histoire pour ne pas la répéter. Il raconte les histoires mais n'en fait jamais partie. Il observe mais reste au-dessus de ce qu'il voit. Il inspire des passions aux autres et règne sur les siennes.
A pause followed. Alim, catching only fragments, stared at the women in bewilderment. Leliana, however, heard every word—and understood. The tension drained from her like magic.
Morrigan continued:
— That phrase surfaced in my memory, though I grasp only fragments. Yet it seemed... apt for this moment. Especially for you.
Leliana offered a faint smile and translated softly:
— A bard must know history to avoid repeating it. Tells stories but is never part of them. Watches from above what they witness. Inspires passion in others while mastering their own. A motto—and allegory—for what an Orlesian bard appears to be... and what they truly are.
— My thanks. In hindsight, I see your motives. And your skill. But here, now, let us agree: no more binding others to me without their knowledge. No more breaking fates or minds. And no more losing yourself. In Lothering, I met a woman—deep, freedom-loving, flawed, even broken. One who groped for principles in the dark, however foolishly. Now I see a mirror... and in it, a monster. A useful lesson, learned before it was too late. Such reflections do strengthen. But is this what your faith demands? Oh, I know my own faults. I confront them, step by step, with reason. Yet your convictions cripple you. Instead of questioning, you take the simplest path. If that price suits you, so be it. But soon, you'll be flat, dull—a mindless tool. And sharp knives are easy to find.
Leliana stiffened further with each word, her face etching with dread—as if some buried memory had reared its head anew. When Morrigan finished, the bard shut her eyes, biting her lip until it bled. A shaky nod.
— I... know how to follow.
— Yet you tried to lead.
— Unsuccessfully.
— Did you truly try?
— For years, I only obeyed, and—
— Hence the cloister. Yes?
— Yes. But—
— Self-deception.
— What?
— You lie to yourself. Why, I care not. Think: even in following, you make choices. You just refuse the weighty ones.
— And if my goal contradicts the Maker's will?
— More visions. I know nothing of 'will' or 'Makers.' But I never sought your friendship. Choose—or remain a footnote in another's tale.
— So... if I choose to break 'fates and minds,' you'll raise no objection?
— Hmm. Clever. A bard's wit. You've spotted the flaw—now do something with it. Or don't.
— An equally clever reply. As if this talk were plucked from my past. I... understand.
Meanwhile, the island rose from the water like a corpse breaching the depths. A rocky oval barely half a kilometer across, its shores were thick with ancient oaks—their girth spoke of centuries. At its heart loomed the tower, stretching three hundred paces skyward. A wooded isthmus connected it to a smaller, barren islet where Imperial Highway remnants lurked beneath roots. Beyond lay eight sturdy docked boats, ready to ferry folk across the lake.
An odd commotion stirred at the docks. From beneath the tree canopy emerged a dozen figures in the distinctive armor of Templars. They formed a defensive line on the open shore, their stance unmistakably wary as the ship approached. Morrigan narrowed her eyes and turned to Alim:
— Is such an escort standard?
The elf shrugged, stepping back from the railing.
— Of course, strangers are met with suspicion here. But Kinloch Hold isn't forbidden ground. Normally, just two Templars guard the docks, escorting visitors as needed. A larger force garrisons the base, ready to defend—or contain—the Tower. Another detachment occupies the fourth floor, dividing it in half. And before you ask—they've had ample time to spot us and muster this welcome.
Knuckling the railing, Morrigan mused:
— Dusk falls within the hour. These gentlemen aren't here for pleasantries. Combined with the crew's haste... How many Templars garrison the island?
Alim scratched his chin, uneasy.
— A dozen veterans, some recruits, their lieutenant, and the Knight-Commander on the fourth floor. Below, thirty-odd rank-and-file, more recruits, a few officers. Enough.
— So a sixth of their force greets us. Charming. No alternative entry, then—not with sentries watching. Even night's veil won't help.
Footsteps approached. Bethany joined them, hair damp and tousled. After setting Morrigan's dry shoes beside her, she stared at the Templars, fear flickering behind a poorly maintained mask of calm.
The ship drifted to a halt, waves lapping against the dock's pilings and the horse-sized basalt boulders beyond. No anchor dropped—the crew focused on lowering the flat-bottomed boat. Passing the glowering captain, Morrigan quipped:
— No desire to tangle with Templars?
He jerked his chin but held his tongue:
— Don't know if that escort's for you or some trouble I've not heard of. But I want no part of it. To the Void with this. Easier to be rid of you and raise sail.
— A mutual benefit.
Adjusting her satchel, Morrigan boarded the dinghy. The crew didn't spare them a glance as they rowed away, sails snapping taut with relief.
Ten minutes brought them to the docks—and another ten to navigate the waves without smashing into the pilings. As if by design, the sun vanished behind clouds the moment they disembarked, draping the world in gray twilight. Kinloch Hold, stripped of detail, loomed like a gargantuan tombstone. Even the Templars seemed bleached of color, their armor dulled to shadow.
Morrigan and Alim took the lead, Leliana hanging back to watch both sides. Her posture was relaxed, bowstring coiled in her pocket. Bethany clung to Morrigan's shadow.
At ten paces, their apparent commander stepped forward, removing his helm. Steel-gray hair, a blade-scarred cheek, and exhausted eyes met them. His voice rasped with surprise:
— Alim? Alim Surana?
The mage hesitated, then nodded, offering his hand.
— Yes, Ser Pelle.
The handshake was reflexive, not warm—a detail Morrigan and Leliana noted. The Templar pressed on:
— Records say you left with Ser Duncan as a Grey Warden recruit. The battle at Ostagar ended... poorly. Denerim's official stance blames the Wardens for misleading the late King about enemy numbers. Before we proceed, explain your return—and status in the Circle.
Alim's reply was measured:
— Setting aside irrelevancies, Ser Pelle: I was at Ostagar, but not as a Warden. I refused the Joining. Duncan, foreseeing disaster—and, I'll add, arguing fiercely against the battle—postponed my execution for desertion. When the time came... no one remained to carry it out. Without my oath, I was relegated to a... less critical position. That's how I survived. As for my status? I couldn't say. Only that I'm alive. And that I've kept my principles.
Ser Pelle gave the elf a skeptical once-over, shaking his head uncertainly. Though unconvinced, he accepted the mage's story without protest. His gaze slid to Morrigan, assessing her from head to toe with no trace of male interest — only dry skepticism and professional caution. The Templar noted weapons, belongings, clothing style, and jewelry before turning his scrutiny to Leliana and Bethany.
— Suppose I believe you. Who exactly have you dragged along? Quite the unusual company for a reclusive mage.
Alim turned to his companions, introducing them in turn:
— Felandaris, of the Hasind. Or rather... Ma'len of a tribe that no longer exists. While she didn't participate directly in the battle, the Blight knows no borders. Her people were wiped out shortly before the main engagement. We met in the woods, and it's only thanks to her skills that I'm standing here unharmed.
Morrigan maintained perfect composure throughout, offering the Templar a polite nod. She spared Alim but a brief glance — one sparkling with amusement, poorly concealed gratitude, and burning curiosity. Pelle grimaced at mention of the Blight, as if the term had become distasteful or contradicted some official stance.
— Bethany and Leliana are refugees from Lothering. The town's dying before our eyes, abandoned by the retreating army. With everyone fending for themselves, the local Templars can't maintain order. Bethany's family perished in the chaos... They had nowhere else to turn. Since my company already included Felandaris, they deemed us the safer option. I didn't hide my destination either — and Kinloch Hold seems preferable to, say, Gwaren.
The Templar nodded slowly, digesting this information. After a glance over his shoulder, he changed topics abruptly:
— I fear your journey's end may be less fortunate than you hoped, Alim. And it's not about you or me. There's been... an incident at the Tower. Knight-Commander Gregor's orders — no one enters or leaves. Not even Templars. Our presence here isn't about you. We're simply warning that the Tower is closed and awaiting reinforcements.
The elf's face fell. Not fully grasping the implications, he cast a questioning look at the dark silhouette of the spire before asking:
— An incident? No one can... leave? Reinforcements? What happened, Ser Pelle?
The Templar gave the young mage a weary look and shook his head.
— You'll get no details from me. If the Knight-Commander chooses to brief you personally, so be it. Regardless, you and your companions will remain under guard at the perimeter camp until your status is clarified. One way or another.
Turning to three men at the formation's left flank, Pelle pointed:
— These men will escort you to camp. Follow their instructions carefully.
The pale, shaken mage nodded. Maintaining composure and manners now took visible effort, his worried gaze repeatedly drawn to the looming tower. The Templars positioned themselves professionally around the group — one leading slightly ahead of Alim, another displacing Leliana to walk at their left flank, the third following two paces behind. None removed hands from sheathed weapons. Unlike their composed commander, their movements betrayed naked tension.
Morrigan glanced back, measuring the distance to the nearest Templar, but Leliana gave an almost imperceptible headshake. Exhaling, the witch relaxed her hands and touched Alim's shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts:
— What could possibly make Templars seal the Tower? Not even letting their own brethren leave, if their commander speaks true.
The elf looked at her with unprecedented fear — a expression she'd never seen in all their shared trials.
— Rebellion. Or... a Veil breach.
— And they can handle neither?
— Reinforcements suggest... No. This indicates either the situation's severity or...—He rubbed his temples.— Forgive me, it's hard to think. Or casualties already taken. These are just guesses.
— So we can't enter?
— Not now...
Morrigan cut him off, voicing thoughts aloud:
— Meaning we're bound for a camp of frightened Templars?
Alim turned slowly, now more alarmed by her words than the news itself.
— Afraid so...
— Then there's nothing to consider.